


and bloom

by superion



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, Kissing, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 23:44:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20367076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superion/pseuds/superion
Summary: I like my body when it is with your body.--E.E. Cummings.Ratchet and Drift take an evening  for themselves.





	and bloom

**Author's Note:**

> I did six years of Catholic school, you guys. Somewhere in campus the nuns are weeping.

There’s no sunlight to be seen, yet Drift feels as though a hundred suns were blooming under his plating, too satisfied to manage anything more than a languid, unselfconscious sprawl, his whole frame thrumming with the last aftershocks of pleasure. Ratchet is watching him with half lidded optics, head resting lightly on one of Drift’s thighs, the fingers of his left hand stroking soothing lines along the outer lips of his valve.

“Did that do the trick, d’you think?”, Ratchet asks, and just the sound of his voice, low and uncharacteristically husky, has prickles of electricity sparking down Drift’s spine, tickling the palms of his hands. Drift lets out a soft noise as Ratchet’s fingers stroke his slick rim one last, torturously slow time before settling over his hip, and Ratchet chuckles against his plating. “Guess it did.”

Drift’s world is reduced to the berth under his plating, to the soothing weight of Ratchet’s body, hot air hitting his sensor net whenever his lover breathes. Ratchet’s field envelops him like the deepest of oceans, a tide of love and joy and desire that makes it hard to think about anything but how much he feels the same, a wealth of emotion stronger than any other force in the universe.

It’s precisely because of this closeness that he can feel the moment that tide changes, feel the faint curve of Ratchet’s mouth against his thigh as it sketches the barest of smiles. It feels dangerous, feels like a _ promise_, his right hand splaying over the flexible, sensitive mesh around Drift’s waist. "Think you can go again?”

Drift’s voice cracks around his first attempt at a reply, optics shutting off for good. His breath is still coming out in tiny, near-inaudible pants, the spin of his spark almost audible to his processors, something bright and burning making the energon in his lines fizz. He licks his lips, tries again. “Dunno.”

“Mm.” Ratchet nuzzles the inside of his thigh, tenderness seeping into his field and spreading to Drift’s very last atom. “Would you like to find out?”

A kiss is pressed to the side of his knee, Ratchet’s hand brushing his inner thigh before pulling back, leaving Drift's hips twitching weakly. There’s a whine at the back of Drift’s throat, but what comes out instead is a breathy, “Yes.”

This is probably how the _ Lost Light _ feels after they send her into hyperdrive.

“Yeah? How do you want it, sweetspark?”, Ratchet asks, shifts forward to lean over Drift, an arm by Drift's head keeping Ratchet above him. It’s a struggle to bring his optics online, to focus on anything when he feels as though he’s made of molten gold, but Ratchet’s gaze and field are so full of love it's like it's seeping into his spark, keeping him buoyant. “Can you tell me?”

He probably could, were he not coming down from his fourth overload of the night -- will, as soon as he remembers how to make his vocaliser actually _ make _ the sounds he wants it to. He tilts his head back in a wordless entreat, instead, trusting Ratchet to understand the little hum that leaves his lips. Ratchet’s optics soften into the sweetest of smiles, small and secret and only for Drift, and he catches the corner of Drift's jaw with his free hand, turns Drift’s face to some precise angle he can’t be bothered to analyse, nor cares to once Ratchet’s mouth brushes over his own.

They kiss for what feels like an eternity, and nowhere near enough at all. Ratchet’s lips are confident, thorough, leaving his own every so often as if to drink in Drift’s quiet breaths, the way his frame is quivering under the medic’s careful weight, a tease of its own. His fingers trace long, lazy lines up the length of Drift’s finials, what little coherence Drift had managed to recover dissolving like dust motes under the sun in response to the exquisite onslaught, warm shivers shaking him all the way down to his protoform, a quiet earthquake in the wake of Ratchet’s tenderness. The world could have faded outside their room, beyond their four little walls and their berth and Drift’s swords on Ratchet’s desk, and Drift doubts he would care, or even notice. He wants nothing but for Ratchet to keep holding him.

His fingers twitch on the berth, wrists behind his own head where Ratchet had placed them earlier, and though he’s not been explicitly told not to move them, there’s a strange freedom to be found in being at his lover’s mercy, to let Ratchet have his way with him in whatever way he chooses.

To his spark, Drift knows he’s safe. Everything else is superfluous.

Ratchet’s tongue strokes his own on their next kiss, languid and slick, the spin of their sparks slowing to a galaxy’s pace. Their frames are overly warm, but it’s nowhere near unpleasant, especially with the way one of Ratchet’s knees is pressing slightly against the edge of Drift’s equipment, just enough to keep him this side of revved up. “So”, Ratchet whispers, words pressed against Drift’s lips like drops of high grade, “Can you tell me?”

Another sigh escapes him, but his mind is too hazy, bright and gold and blissfully, blissfully empty. He squirms a little against Ratchet’s knee just for the pleasure of it, instead, breath catching on a moan when Ratchet moves his leg more firmly against him. 

"You don't even remember what words are right now, do you?", Ratchet murmurs, smiling down at Drift like he's the dearest, most wonderful thing in his life. Drift blinks lazily at him, fully aware that he probably looks somewhere between drunk and utterly besotted, and smiles back. Ratchet laughs quietly, presses their foreheads together before running his mouth over the sharp arch of Drift's cheekbones, his temple, the place right next to his chin where he knows a dimple must be showing. "Shall I guess, then?"

"Mm", Drift hums, nuzzling his cheek against Ratchet's, and is rewarded by another little laugh. He stretches a little, relishing the almost liquid feel of his own body, how Ratchet's free hand slips under him to curve along Drift's spine. He guides Drift's hips down with a long, languorous stroke of his open palm, until he's straddling Ratchet's thigh, grinding against it in a tantalising slide that has his optics offlining and a wordless, tremulous sound escaping his throat.

"That's it", Ratchet croons, voice rough with satisfaction, his lips brushing against Drift's own in a chaste echo of a kiss, nowhere near enough for the heat chasing through him. "Just like that, sweetspark." Drift's mouth opens without any conscious thought, and it's only as Ratchet's tongue teases the tip of one of his fangs that Drift realises Ratchet is trembling, too, just as worked up as he is but keeping himself in check to focus on _ Drift_.

Drift whines, low and shameless and _ needy _ until Ratchet takes mercy on him and kisses him properly, their tongues gliding wet and smooth against each other, and when Ratchet pulls back with a little bite at his lower lip Drift can feel the tiny indentations on it, only adding to the fire burning through every atom in his frame.

“Do you want me to touch you some more?” Ratchet asks as they part, gentle as a first kiss, breath ghosting over Drift’s lips. Drift can barely bring his optics online to look at him, and Ratchet's gaze is so intent he has to shut them again immediately and turn his face to the side. Ratchet leans more heavily on his arm, a whisper of movement next to Drift's head, and rubs his thumb over Drift's cheek. The touch is soothing, soft, a devastating contrast to the relentless heat of his voice, “Want me to get you all worked up until you’re about to burst, until you’ve had me deep, deep inside of you so good and so long you’re begging me to let you overload?”

_ Yes _ is on the tip of Drift's tongue, breathless and a little delirious, but then Ratchet’s nose bumps the side of his own, and he nuzzles Drift's cheek spar, sinks his teeth into the cables at Drift’s throat. It's barely enough to be called biting, so inexorably slow he cannot _ think _ through the haze of pleasure-pain of it until Ratchet lets go, soothes the sting with soft open-mouthed kisses.

“Or I could lick you open again”, Ratchet continues, words mouthed into his plating, right at that brittle spot where Drift’s finial meets the side of his neck. His teeth drag carefully against the edge of Drift’s jaw, and Drift arches and shudders so hard he can feel it to his _ fingertips, _ mouth open in a silent cry. “Kiss you softly, very softly, just like so--” And it _ is _ soft, barely heavier than gravity, sweet like things rarely are in Drift’s life, like he’s delicate and beautiful and worth delectating in. His lips are trembling when Ratchet pulls away, intoxicating in a way no drug has ever been, more precious than all the stars in the universe. “I'll just taste your pretty valve until you’re aching to be filled, completely past words, and you can’t tell when one overload stops and the other one starts…”

“Please”, Drift cries, shaking all over and still completely unable to _ move, _ pinned in place and unravelling simply from Ratchet’s nearness, Ratchet’s heat, “Ratchet, please, _ please--” _

Soft lips press soothing kisses to his plating, each one fanning the flames higher than the last, and, “Please what, sweetspark?”, Ratchet says, tilts Drift’s head back with two fingers under his chin, and Drift’s field _ breaks. _

“Please _ frag me”, _ Drift says, voice cracking, and Ratchet's engine _ growls, _ Drift's breathy moan lost to Ratchet's mouth as he kisses Drift ravenously. Drift is so lost in the immediacy of it that it takes him by surprise when Ratchet slides two fingers into him, makes him writhe and toss his head back, breaking the kiss with a high-pitched keen. "Ratch, Ratch, Ratchet--"

Ratchet doesn't make him wait, for all he's teased him so far. His fingers stroke deep into his valve, stretch the soft, flexible inner mesh as he scissors them slowly and then curls them up, bringing them together just as his frame grinds down against Drift, keeping him maddeningly still. Drift whines into empty air, and his hands twitch behind his head as his valve calipers try to cycle down on Ratchet's open fingers only to find the pressure gone, but he doesn't even have time to cry out in protest before they're inside him again, this time three instead of two, Ratchet's teeth scraping at the vulnerable space between his neck and shoulder. His breath is a hot, wet jolt against Drift's sensors, and Drift wonders from the shudders that wrack through him just how high Ratchet's set the sensitivity on his hands. 

"You feel so good", Ratchet groans, rough and breathless, rubbing at the little cluster of nodes just inside Drift's valve, right at the top, barely holding himself up at this point. "You're so _ good _ for me, sweetspark, so hot and wet around me, so beautiful like this--"

The fire rises, flares, Drift's frame crackling with tiny quicksilver sparks, Ratchet's voice in his audial and his fingers inside him coaxing him close, closer--

Drift shatters with a sharp, uncontrollable cry, arching from the berth as excess charge whips through his frame and pulls Ratchet into overload with him, Drift's name in his lips. 

They come down slowly, shaking to their protoforms. Ratchet's knees give up on him, only the arm next to Drift's head keeping him from collapsing entirely, but Drift uncrosses his arms and tugs him down, turning them to their sides and wrapping his legs around him, every movement weak and sluggish and more blissed out than he's ever been in his life. He's pretty sure the barely perceptible whine he can hear every time he exhales is his vocaliser trying to reset, yet with one of Ratchet's hands coming up to his waist, the other to the back of his neck, he finds it increasingly hard to be concerned enough to do it.

The seconds drag out, stretch into minutes, only marked by their breaths, the sound of their fans trying to cool then down -- which, admittedly, would be easier if they separated a little, just enough for their vent systems to get some air. They stay curled together, instead.

Drift isn't sure how much time passes before he can summon the energy to bring his optics back online. Only that when he does, Ratchet is watching him with warmth in his optics, one of his hands rubbing comforting lines along his back, the slightest of smiles on his lips.

"There you are", Ratchet says, presses their foreheads together. "You alright?"

"Mhm", Drift murmurs, soft and content. The world feels hazy at the edges, and he lets his optics fall offline again, lets his field do the talking for him.

Ratchet chuckles, hugs him closer. "Yeah, sweetspark. I love you too."


End file.
